


The Holly and The Ivy

by JaneSkylark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneSkylark/pseuds/JaneSkylark
Summary: HP: War AU – This is an unusual pairing. It wasn’t an option for tagging so I decided to keep it a mystery so people could choose their own characters. So, go into this however you feel best. I think many can fit the story and work in whatever way you want them to. Tell me who you saw in the story. Mature but vague. Kind of angsty. Christmas. One-shot.





	The Holly and The Ivy

It started with a brush.

Our hands would reach for the same thing, a glass, a book, a doorknob and our fingers would brush. Subtle at first. I wasn’t sure if it were mine that lingered or his. The first time he grasped my fingers and didn’t let go it was at the kitchen table as we ate dinner next to each other but when I turned to look at him, he was looking away. His hand was still sharp on mine.

I was going up the stairs and he was coming down and when we met each other on the small landing we danced around each other, he put his hand on my back and brought me close to him. He edged me against the wall and the lengths of our bodies held tight against the other. I looked up at his face but he didn’t say anything and as he let go, I held on, letting our bodies brush for a moment longer. I wanted to kiss him but he shook his head at me, pushed me away and continued down the stairs.

******

I was used to my home for Christmas. Parents bustling around, presents overflowing from a large tree and treats lining the tables. It was always a special time after being away from home while at Hogwarts. My parents doting on me, spoiling me, being silly with me were the memories I held close now, with my school days so far behind me. But the war made those things impossible and it had been years since I had seen a Christmas like the ones of my childhood.

So, instead of being home, I was here. In a house where its cold grasp, born from meanness found its way around one’s heart and in a season where happiness should be abundant it was missing from this serious place. It held too many rooms for too many people and smelled of dust and mold. In a corner sat a sad Christmas tree that had been put up haphazardly when it was decided that we must stay here for the holiday because alternatives were too dangerous. On the eve of Christmas there are no presents under the tree.

His face is half hidden. Half shines from the firelight while the other half is dark from facing the blackened window. A scar runs down the side of his face, still red and angry from the freshness of a cut. He’s watching closely as people move around him. He is quieter now than when I first met him years before. Then he was mostly bluster and energy with a side of erratic. The war did that to people, it changed them, myself included. I wasn’t the boisterous, happy girl of my youth and he wasn’t the sarcastic misfit of his. He’s older than me and gray hair is scattered through his mane, but he is so handsome. I couldn’t deny it, couldn’t ignore it, the pull was there. I felt it in my bones leading my eyes to him whenever we were in the same room. He’s an itch, I long to scratch. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. I saw some of the others cast longing looks his way. It wasn’t hard to believe. In these times when precious moments were so few, people often looked anywhere they could, to find warm touches, soft words and completeness from quick highs.

He's a survivor. Survived one the worst fates imaginable. I'll only count as a survivor if I make it through this and considering how many have already been lost, I'm not blind. This war might mark me as just another casualty. Every day I live the possibility that it might be my last. Dressed in black and looking somber, his eyes lift up and meet mine.

I wear black too, we all do. It covers our wardrobes and is a requirement considering the places we go and the things that we do. Black conceals, black hides, black mourns. Before the war, I wore pastels. My closet was a rainbow of happy colors. Skirts, dresses and cardigans all lined up from red to violet. Some with patterns, some with lace, some vibrant, some pale. I had the most perfect purple sweater with a bit of lace at the collar. My favorite, wore it to death but now it sits packed away somewhere unworn, unseen. I remember wearing it the first time I met him. Before when I was only just waking up to the reality that innocent days were ending and war wasn’t only on the horizon, but was ongoing, having never truly ended. Black isn’t a color.

The room is crowded as others move around, pulling out plans, marking notes as they plot our next move. When I can’t take it anymore, not on Christmas Eve, I excuse myself and escape upstairs to my room where the stark walls greet me and where the wallpaper is faded in patches from missing paintings that used to hang there.

There is a stench of flowers in my room and from the discolored stain on the carpet, I suspect a perfume bottle dropped there years ago. The smell hangs heavy in the air and while some would describe it as calming, I find it overwhelming. I ready for bed not caring that it’s early and as I lay back on the bed I look up at the ceiling as minutes from the clock tick by.

******

It happened because I wanted it to.

It was hours later when I rose again from my room. By that point everyone had gone to their rooms, most likely sleeping given the late hour. Getting as much rest as they could. My nightgown was slightly sheer in the right light so I pulled a robe on over and I made my way down to the kitchen but as I pass by, I can see a light on in the study where we had all congregated earlier. I stand outside the door and see through the crack that he is still there, in the same chair, hours later. He holds a glass filled to the top with firewhiskey.

I open the door and at the creak his head whips to the sound. He moves to the side and holds up the bottle and I nod. He retrieves a second glass and as he pours, I come into the room shutting the door behind me. I walk towards him and he holds out the glass. I take it and lower myself into the identical chair across from him.

We sit in silence for long moments, both drinking from our glasses until he speaks. His voice is rough and gravelly. “You seem sad.” 

I'm surprised that he would notice, more surprised that he would bring it up. There are few people that he cares about and while I've worried my attraction could be noticeable to others, his has always been either too subtle or a figment of my imagination for me to realize. I say the only thing I can. “Who isn’t?”

He nods and looks back at the fire.

“I’ve been able to handle this.” He looks up at me as I pause and our eyes meet before his looks down at me. Want vs need. He wants it, I need it. I’m sure of it. “Well for the most part or as well as anyone can I've been able to handle it but Christmas here is the hardest. I miss my parents, I miss how it was before. This…” I wave my hand around the room and towards the Christmas tree, “is almost too depressing. Maybe it’s better if we didn’t celebrate it, just pretend it was a day like any other. Nothing special.” I take a large sip of the firewhiskey and it burns my throat on its way down but I don’t cough.

He swirls the whiskey in his glass before raising to drink from it and looks at me from over the rim. “It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated anything.”

My eyes meet his and it finally shifts. I inhale deeply and his eyes cut away but I’m sure. I stand from my chair and move towards him until my legs are on the outside of his. He sets his glass down on the table and his fingertips brush my thighs just below the hem of my nightgown. He looks up at me and I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He smells woodsy with cigarettes and drink. I lower myself to sit on his lap and as I caress his face, I kiss him.

From the table he grabs his wand, dark wood, longer than mine, locks the door and adds a silencing charm. This is happening.

“This is a mistake.”

I shake my head, _no it’s not_. “I want this,” I whisper and run my fingers along his jaw before moving up and threading them through his hair roughly as I lean down and kiss him again. His lips are hard too, like he is and he tastes just how he smells.

The kiss turns deep and he wraps his arms around me and I wrap my legs around him, best that I can with us both sitting in the chair. After several moments of kissing he lifts me from his lap and pushes me towards the floor as he follows until I’m lying on the floor with him on top.

He is ready and I’m willing. He is hard and I’m fast. He is undressing me and I’m undressing him. And then it’s happening. Him moving and me urging him. Meeting each other moment for moment. The firelight dances across our bodies and casts shadows on the walls around us.

When it stills, he stays beside me. We lay in front of the fire and he leans over me as he brushes my hair back from my face. We stay silent in this quiet moment, not speaking and only touching one another.

As the night hours lessen and we come closer to others waking, I put my nightgown back on and he rises from our nest beside the fire. I come to stand beside him and he kisses me deeply and I hug him back. We sway slightly for several moments before I quietly leave the room.

******

Morning arrives and with it, Christmas. Everyone tries to make the most out of it. Someone plays on the piano, we sing and tell jokes throughout the day, drink and try our best to be merry but it falls flat. The ever-present gloom of our situation holds us close and won't let go. But after the night before, my eyes find his throughout the day and before when we would look away from each other our looks now linger. His eyes shift down and they rake over my body, seeing what my clothes cover up and mine do the same to him. When I pass by him in the kitchen, he stays next to me for a second longer than necessary and I feel his breath warm on my neck. His hand brushes my side briefly. His hand lingers on my back. They aren't just small touches but promises of more.

******

There is a package waiting on the bed for me when I return to my room. It is the saddest present I’ve ever seen, wrapped in newspaper print and tied with a bit of string. I pull it loose and the paper falls to the side and there in front of me is a purple sweater, light in color with a bit of lace at the trim. Tears prick at my eyes and I take a breath as a smile breaks across my face. 

 


End file.
